Life's Lost Memories (Highlander-based fiction)
by l1z4rdwr455l3r
Summary: Can a good person's cynicism be turned? Are good and evil separate? Can there be redemption for all, or might selfishness return? A lawyer discovers they could be more than just 'a cog in the machine' and finds a new existence. Will they embrace it? (Please read my profile, this is my first attempt at Highlander-based fiction).


**Life's Lost Memories (Chapter 1)**

'Alone at last! Finally I can get to the paperwork for tomorrow..?'

Perhaps I _should_ feel at least somewhat guilty for being grateful for the solitude...this is my family after all?

But the pressure from the world outside -as well as inside my own offices- has now become almost unbearable...cutting me off from those I love...turning me into something I'm not.

Whilst my step-daughter Miranda snoozes in her bed and my wife Lisa takes part in yet another parents' evening at the College where she teaches Sciences, I try to put in my own shift of preparing for tomorrow's court appearances:

Three assaults and an aggravated burglary isn't much as far as criminals go, but my defence of one of the area's most notorious families has certainly caught the media's appetite.

So far, all of their attentions have been scathing; with the trials all set for this week, the future doesn't exactly look 'rosy', either.

But when recessions bite deep, "beggars can't be choosers" and there's not a lot of choice for a veteran lawyer like myself.

I used to hit the gym, trying to recapture the figure I had in my athletic twenties and to get rid of a middle-aged paunch that I publicly claimed had crept up on me (but which in truth had mired me in private denial for years). But business is business and clients aren't particularly thick on the ground.

So, I put in the hours in at the office -and increasingly at home- setting aside the money for our future, yet paying little attention to what it had done to both myself and my relationships with the people I should hold dearest.

There's no disguising to our friends (or even neighbours) that Lisa is thinking of moving out, but I still keep hoping for 'a break in the clouds'. Maybe we can all get away once these cases were through?

Lisa always says Ireland is beautiful but, even in our 5 year together, we've never been there.

To heap further aggravation upon my impatience, the sudden clattering of rain against our luxurious home's A+ rated glazing presages another set of long days ahead of me.

'Just great; another week of defending more criminals caught up in what passes for "the justice system" around here.'

Pouring another double whiskey, I try to recall the times when life hadn't been so hectic.

The smoky alcohol fuddles my brain for a short while and the half-empty bottle stares back at me accusingly, irrefutable evidence that I've had "more than a few".

Liquor used to sharpen me up and get me in the game quicker, but it seems that nothing I take -whether alcoholic or pharmaceutical- can fully shake off the headache I've had all day.

The dubious 'phone call I received a fortnight ago had heralded this latest round of frantic scrambling to provide adequate defence for people I should have had no time for.

Ultimately greed won through, though, because it was too good a chance to pass up:

The fee was more than double what I'd expect.

Sure I'd give it my best shot, but the fearsome demeanour and notorious reputation of my clients would mean that no blame could be attributed to me personally even if I fail.

Looking back, had it been more than mere avarice persuading me to agree..?

The soft female voice which urged me to take these cases had been compelling, earnest; perhaps even honest..?

Part of her lilting Celtic tone reminded me of the feelings I'd had after graduation: "wanting to make a difference"; buoyed up by naivety; believing that I couldn't get ground down by the system.

Fairly typical youthful concepts, now discarded.

I look down at the enticing bottle, recalling that this brand and I have been unequal companions for more than twenty years. Somewhat disappointed, I note that the level of amber liquid is now lower than before.

Three strong -now cold- coffees stand waiting for me on the kitchen counter and I drain them quickly, barely pausing for breath. I am grateful that they bring me back to the here-and-now, but I also hate their empty vessels which stand in mute testimony to my failed ambitions.

Taking the bottle with me as I resume my seat, the pile of work stacked upon the antique clerks' desk reminds me that I am still futilely trying to defend bullies in a backwater town as I hit 38 years of age.

As time flashes by, pages of shorthand notes and Statutes seem to blur into one hellish tome.

'Why won't this headache go away?'


End file.
